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The Faery Handbag

I used to go to thrift stores with my friends. We’d take the train into Boston, and go to The Garment District, which is this huge vintage clothing warehouse. Everything is arranged by color, and somehow that makes all of the clothes beautiful.
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Collecting James

Two dozen seemingly identical chips rested atop small black stands, displayed on the shelves like treasure. James reached into the wide rosewood cabinet to inspect one of the pieces. It was the size of a thick poker chip. An almost perfect circle of bone.
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The Laura Ingalls Experience

I twist out of the flames as a hundred kilos of heroic wagon driver slams into me, carrying me to the ground. He wraps me in something wooly and rough—bison robes. In the fire I could hear the crackle of burning wood, the whoosh of my dress igniting. Now the only sound is Tasunke’s ragged breathing. Then the prairie orchestra: a symphony of crickets fiddling in the night. Finally, the alarmed voices of the others.
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The Teratologist’s Brother

“Sorry, sorry,” I said to her, then looked up and found the man-shaped thing with the huge head in our way. It startled me. I felt my brother so near to me in that moment. I smelled hash and heard his voice, speaking one of his koans. For a split-second I imagined myself in some vast desert, pouring out a bucket of dirty water.
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Dolly

On Sunday when Dolly awakened, she had olive skin and black-brown hair that fell in waves to her hips. On Tuesday when Dolly awakened, she was a redhead, and fair. But on Thursday — on Thursday her eyes were blue, her hair was as black as a crow’s-wing, and her hands were red with blood.
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